2022 Bits of Flint

ofFlint

Bits ofFlint 2022

Front Cover: “Deer Puns (A Look Out the Window at Estes Park)” by Eddie Schweikert

Editor - Christian Dames & Kristian Rocha Art Faculty Advisor - Katie Jones Faculty Advisor - Henry Krusiewicz

Editors’ Note: This edition depicts challenging realities drawn from our challenging times.

Poetry

Ballad of Fiction- Devyn Hansen

Tonya Harding- Devyn Hansen

i am the butterfly- Devyn Hansen

The Faithful Nature of Death- Matthew Weisberg

Cost- Matthew Weisberg

Spectral Grip- Matthew Weisberg

Succumb- Matthew Weisberg

Exodus- Jonathan Mahoney

Epitaph to the Day- Jonathan Mahoney

Italy in My Dreams- Ashlee Palimo’o

Arthropod Deity- Jaden Cover

Untitled- Bridget Praest

Fairy Tale Love- Rachel Brown

Racist Nerve- Rachel Brown

Go with the Flow- Rachel Brown

Murderous Miss Molly- Eddie Schweikert

Tragedy on a Tuesday- Eddie Schweikert

What’s Left of Devotion- Ashlee Palimo’o

I Often Lie- Kydrenn Hightree

The Lost Soul- Kydrenn Hightree

Untitled- Zoey Hurst

Am I the Actor?- Christian Dames

Tell Me Beautiful Lies- Christian Dames

I’m Tired- Ashlee Palimo’o

Memory- Gabi Hoffman

it rhymes with cinder- Gabi Hoffman

Untitled- Zoey Hurst

Fallen- Robb Farber

Titane- Robb Farber

Cost of Doing Business- Robb Farber

A Reflection upon my Gaze- Robb Farber

The Delight of the Evergreen- Eddie Schweikert

Time Without You- Nick Luedke

Hollowed- Nick Luedke

Sober Husbands Simplified- Jessica Palmquist

Beulah Meyer Link Award Selection

Love is Blind- Jessica Palmquist

Men of Old (Death of the Ram)- Jessica Palmquist

Deer Puns (A Look Out of the Window at Estes Park)Eddie Schweikert

Front Cover Selection

HERE- Nick Luedke

What Lay Ahead- Eddie Schweikert

Untitled- Bridget Praest

Broken Shards- Jessica Palmquist

The Last Stop- Christian Dames

RAW- Ashlee Palimo’o

Frozen Spring- Elissa Dames

Scripts

An Excerpt from “A Mother’s Love” - Devyn Hansen

An Excerpt from “All These Strange Tales in My Head”Christian Dames

Poetry

Ballad of Fiction

In many works of fiction, I’ve written the stars to death, but when it is my time to go, The sea will have my breath.

I’ve troubled over Shakespeare’s words, But never killed my lovers, Brought Icarus out of his myth, I know there have been others.

The poets used all of the words, I have no seeds left to sew, The tortured artist, half bereft, Cries for me to let him go.

When I cannot find inspiration, I rip myself apart, But a mosaic of some other works Is not a piece of art.

Tonya Harding Devyn Hansen

I am the caged phoenix, like a cigarette, put out. I never stood a chance. She was everything I wanted to be. It was so easy to watch her fall.

It’s just me and Brutus and Tonya Harding. Who could blame me?

i am the butterfly

i don’t recognize you anymore the way i recognize the creaks of your plastic car interior you promised to love me forever you say you’ve lost me nineteen years old and i’m reduced to a miscarriage the three hour ride home making compromises i haven’t seen you cry since i was small who knew it was selfish to have a metamorphosis.

The Faithful Nature of Death

Matthew Weisberg

I despise a look of happiness

Because I know not if it’s true—

Men do fake a fervent grin

And feign, a cheerful gait

The eyes, unglazed—and that is life—

Possible to sham

The friendly dimples upon the face

By unknown intentions, crease

Spectral Grip

Matthew Weisberg

Invisible spectator

A wanderer lone

Amid the milling egoists His plights unseen

Like a dying tree, Spied in hasty passing But now you feel, His hand’s icy grip

Around your neck—

Tightening

As you cough bloody chunks

Your chest caves and heaves Your eyes, bathed in fear—

Widening

And the hands of a ghost—

Unyielding—consume—

Are realer than flesh, As you die slow

Cost

Matthew Weisberg

A squatting circle of blasphemy

Their speech—a dog-like cacophony

A wide-eyed child in gray filthy rags

Sits among the horde

An image of creation, tainted Claws to mouth, they feed Carcass clumps, fermented chunks

Forced to join, this child eats

He chokes and wretches

While creatures grin—

Blotch speckled, stinking smirks

A blackening of the soul ensuing— The bitter price of a changeling

Succumb

Matthew Weisberg

Cold cement

A black chasm space

Void of all light

I’m wandering, blank

Darkness encompassing Licking all corners

It seeks now, to enter

Like tendrils, it ventures

Filling my pores,

As tapeworms, it burrows

Vying for my soul

Pouring unto me

Shapeless, odorless Becoming vacant

Until I am Nothing

Exodus

Jonathan Mahoney

Clouds follow fleeting sunshine.

Mine atmosphere’s spread thin. There’s a banging on the walls.

When direction cannot be found.

Self love remains a trifle

Aye the derelict ship lost to fog.

Reclaimed by poseidon’s wrath

If only thy lamp illuminated such a curtain.

Yet fear turns mine aching heart stone

Thou art loved.

Yet thyn abyss remains unfilled.

Days fly on.

Life drags by.

Art thou partaking?

Or ist thou spectating?

And what of Charon’s sorrowful lips?

Left to navigate the river of styx

Shall I follow thyn current? Or leave mine fate to be woven by Theodon’s tremulous hands.

Mine clock ticks all the same.

The fall on sweet summer’s day

Sea water laps thyn upon weary eyes.

A last glimpse before curtains close.

Why punish a bird for its lame wing?

For God bore him in this manner.

Yet bear witness to his fall all the same.

Darwin’s great comedy, only a comedy in name.

Darkness falls upon the stage Chorus fades as lights dim Clapping hands echo to silence

The final bow has been taken

Epitaph to the Day

Jonathan Mahoney

You start so cold then filled with life

A glowing warmth covers you in light

A rebirth from the sins of our past

A new day is ushered in at last You nurture us in your saving grace

Yet soon you’ll leave this hallowed place

In a fiery glory you exit with style

Your last gift to us a shining smile

Italy in My Dreams

Ashlee Palimo’o

Arthropod Deity Jaden Cover

When all good is gone in the world

And hope is just a feeling

The moth directs a wishful glance

To the light within our ceiling

“Oh precious light, father of heat

The fruit for all my labor

If it is not too much to ask...

Spare room for a neighbor?”

As the sun slips beneath the sky

The moon clocks into work Inside, the moth continues to cry

Slowly going berserk

“I must fly to feel your light

Be wrapped in your holy arms

Your heat hugging my fluttering wings

Give me your burning charm”

With blind courage and a faint buzz

The moth begins to dash

Both courage and life short lived

The moth splats into glass

Fairy Tale Love

Rachel Brown

We dream of a type of fairy tale love,

The kind of love we read about in books That has the perfect man with stunning looks. Who fits in our life like a perfect glove

With no ulterior motive or hooks

And is as formidable as a rook. You are finally someone’s lady love.

However, the truth of this love is It is only found in the fairy tales Because the world is viciously cruel. We are not anyone’s lovely Missus, If we are married, it will likely fail, We will always be sad, hopeless fools.

Untitled Bridget Praest

Racist Nerve

Rachel Brown

“He deserved to die!”

“They are all criminals!” “He was definitely high!”

But are they murderous When asleep in their home? How is that dangerous?

Does a phone look like a gun In a white man’s hand?

Or just in the black one?

Is it safe to drive

From one place to another?

Don’t we all deserve to be alive?

Why so quick to judge

Someone you don’t even know? Why hold a grudge?

Do you protect and serve all?

Or just someone who is white? Do you like to see blacks fall?

Aren’t we all equals?

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, That all men are created equal, That they are endowed by their Creator

With certain unalienable rights, That among these are:

Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.” Or does that mean nothing to you?

Go with the Flow

Rachel Brown

For years I was told To hide my pain And act bold

So that’s what I did I hid everything from others, Suffocated my emotions with a lid

After so long The pain grew, I no longer felt strong

Told I have depression I hated all of life Avoided my therapy sessions.

I tried and failed for years To escape the madness Succumbing to my fears

But I made it to 21

When I never thought I would I thought I survived the uphill run

Then my plans fell apart When the diagnosis changed I felt like I had to restart

My life had been taken

By my illness once again So this change left me shaken

Bipolar is genetic

And it makes me crazy But it is not poetic

So with the change I go Adjust the meds Continue to grow

Murderous Miss Molly

Eddie Schweikert

“What should we do with the body?”

She whispered in the lobby

This was the folly

Of murderous Miss Molly

Before, she had a wonderful life

Never filled with any strife

But then her life, it went awry

When she married Danny P. Skye

At first he seemed so very happy

He was caring and strong and liked to be sappy

His eyes would shine like the moon on the sea

And whenever he laughed, it filled her with glee

But then she discovered the horrible truth

One Danny’d been hiding since his early youth

Quite simply put, he’d murdered his parents

Although it was labeled as a disappearance

It was not long before Miss Molly learned why Danny had murdered Mr. and Mrs. Skye

Because Danny sleepwalked, he’d get out of bed

And shout all the horrible things that went through his head

One night in December, he revealed

The story he had so tightly concealed

He murdered his parents one day when he was six Because they decided to enter politics! (Oh, how Danny hated politics!)

But Miss Molly had some future plans of her own

To rise through the House and someday sit on the Speaker’s throne

So she enlisted the help of her powerful friends

To bring Danny P. Skye’s life to a very quick end

I shall not detail the gruesome death

Or the horrible way he took his last breath

But I will tell you this: they only got caught

Because the camera in the lobby was within earshot

“What should we do with the body?”

She whispered in the lobby

That was the folly

Of murderous Miss Molly

The Tragedy on a Tuesday Eddie Schweikert

Along the rural road

Leaves swirled in the wind

Like circling snow

In a perfect film

This spot is where two men died

But to many it’s just part of the daily drive

What a stark divide

One car crossed the double yellow line

At the point where the road curves West

It was inevitable that they’d collide

I’m sure you can piece together the rest

They closed the road and

Once the remnants were towed away

All that remained

Was a large dark spot on the highway

After a few days,

People came and prayed

They left flowers and stayed for hours

Just sitting with the pain of the tragedy

Then flower petals swirled in the wind

Like circling snow in a perfect movie

The only remnant of what had happened

How morbid

How tragic

What’s Left of Devotion Ashlee Palimo’o

I Often Lie Kydrenn Hightree

I’m not gonna lie: I often lie

I can’t do heart to hearts

I have to say goodbye

Every time you laugh, I cry I wish we could depart

I’m not gonna lie: I often lie

Whenever you get into bed, I sigh You no longer look like art I have to say goodbye

I can’t make it stop, even though I try I wish we could just restart

I’m not gonna lie: I often lie

You act like you think everything is fine (you don’t realize things are awry) But I no longer call you sweetheart

I have to say goodbye

Please, please, don’t ask me why Everything is falling apart

I’m not gonna lie: I often lied

I’m so sorry, goodbye

Untitled Zoey Hurst

The Lost Soul Kydrenn Hightree

The lost soul wanders far from life Deep in the depths of hell Cold, alone, stabbed by her knife Down and down he fell

The lost soul wonders why he died “What did I do wrong” Stabbed to death by his cold, hateful bride Yet, For her touch he longed

The lost soul asks how to come back How to live once more But never will he see his bride She left and slammed the door

For the lost soul took a mistress So fair and so sweet But to his wife he was married Never, ever cheat

Am I the Actor?

Christian Dames

People forget that I am an actor, Because I don’t perform onstage. Truth is, I act daily.

Am I who I say I am?

Am I who others say I am?

Am I fraud? A pretender?

Every day I am drinking Mead, Crafting selves, upon selves, upon selves, It leaves me drunk and confused, Stumbling like a donkey onstage, When my character hits rock bottom.

People are set in their assumptions of me, They think they have me figured out.

But no one truly asks me. No one truly knows me. Because they left at intermission, Satisfied with my tragedy, having guessed my ending, But I prepared a second act, And (spoiler alert), It’s a comedy.

I’m Tired Ashlee Palimo’o

Tell Me Beautiful Lies

Christian Dames

The truth has been harsh to me lately, You have been harsh to me lately. Just tell me beautiful lies, Your ugly truths are too much to bear. You have been harsh to me lately, I thought we were friends- more than that actually, Your ugly truths are too much to bear, Can’t you see that now I’m bleeding?

I thought we were friends- more than that actually, You told me you cared, loved me even. Can’t you see that now I’m bleeding? A knife to the back will do that to you. You told me you cared, loved me even. Now your betrayal has left me paranoid, A knife to the back will do that to you. Why did you have to tell me the truth?

Now your betrayal has left me paranoid, The truth has been harsh to me lately. Why did you have to tell me the truth? Just tell me beautiful lies.

Memory Gabi Hoffman

They asked me where on earth I was

Boy was I, was I, I was there

What they saw made the world pause.

They didn’t even know the cause

I guess there was something in the air

They asked me where on earth I was.

That day, it brought out all our flaws

The tragedy made us aware

What they saw made the world pause.

We all know the new airport laws

No metal, put your shoes in there

They asked me where on earth I was.

Second, third, and hundred last straws

Second, third, and hundredth prayer

What they saw made the world pause.

Years of political faux pas,

A thought no one could even bear,

A speech given to get applause,

What they saw made the world pause.

Untitled Zoey Hurst

it rhymes with cinder Gabi Hoffman

My friends forced me to get it as a joke

But I don’t think it’s a joke anymore

I am still in love with the boy next door

I saw him everyday but never spoke

He had my heart until the day it broke My mom thinks he’s a little… of a bore

I haven’t seen someone like him before I see him when I’m writing, every stroke

Until I met the next man, he swiped left But I, oh I decided to swipe right I still think about the night we met I talked for six hours before I left I, oh I, I still remember that night

Sadly, he wants to be with a brunette.

Fallen Robb Farber

What difference is there to a man? Who falls suddenly stops

And dies.

Whether he does so from two towers plain, Or a plane high up in the sky?

What mortal would, Upon that drop Not see his flashing life? And kindred spirits fly Together, till judgment wrought?

In Kabul and New York Twin lives, like towers, lost. Televised our violent costs In tandem to their demise

The cries of their fellow countrymen.

What difference can be prescribed

To the desperation of those now dead Opposite the whole world over, Yet together in grief formed thread Tie together what little shred of humanity we have left?

Cost of Doing Business

Robb Farber

Earnings exchanging hands

Accruing increasing demands

Reducing our lives worth Towards a bullish deathly hearse Hereafter our Entranced Earth

Titane

Robb Farber

Chrome heart strings siphon Revolutions in blood oil Burning rubber souls

A Reflection upon my Gaze

Robb Farber

Dreadful rustling Sublime futility Burned deep Within my bones. I can feel it in my toes When they curl, I long for home.

I remember the pretty girls, the simple sweets of unrung Youth.

What disasters I have known Since those seasons Long ago.

And when, by chance My eyes turn back Reflect a shallow husk. Like ants, I feel the thrust Of sunlight burning shame Through the microscopic Gaze

Time Without You

Nick Luedke

How long has it been, Nearer to a year, Since together we were seen, And now, you are everywhere

I need more, I need time, Time with you, for love to increase, Not enough days, but now is the prime, Before all hope is Deceased.

You are my life, apart of me, A sweet, delectable fruit, I protest to thee, Till I can no more and fall mute,

Time without you, nothing to cheer, Please come back, I want you near.

Hollowed

Nick Luedke

I want to call you and swallow my pride, But I bottle these feelings instead, drown choking, Feeling empty, and hollow inside.

Your love burned, but failed to provide, Too good to be true, but I kept on stoking, I just want to call you, and swallow my pride.

A mask, where I confide, During nights spent joking, I sat, feeling empty, hollow inside.

I stand here now, as I peak inside, groaning, moaning, are you worth moping? please let me call you and swallow my pride.

Never once been accepted, so here I reside, cold coals, while the world starts smoking, completely empty, hollow inside.

Cold coals, soft dirt, no space to coincide, only darkness, and the same old clothing, I just wanted to call you and swallow my pride, but now I’m empty, and hollow inside.

The Delight of the Evergreen Eddie Schweikert

Sober Husbands Simplified

Jessica Palmquist

Beulah Meyer Link Award Selection

Men, drunkards and masters.

Walk on eggshells!

Don’t disturb him!

Make his meals, have his children!

Walk on eggshells…

Don’t bother him after work.

Make his meals, have his children!

Twenty-five: worn away to fiddle strings.

Don’t bother him after work,

In his hand is a drink.

He doesn’t want a worn away fiddle string.

At work he looks at pretty girls.

He has a drink in hand.

A man, drunkard and master!

At work he looks at pretty girls, At home he finds you suitable to use.

Love Is Blind

Jessica Palmquist

Life without senses isn’t kind. I love acknowledging the world around me. Love is blind.

His accented voice pulls me into an intoxicated bind. He says “I love you” much to my glee. Life without senses isn’t kind.

In his hair my fingers twined. His hands are rough like the bark of a tree. Love is blind.

When he enters a room he’s easy to find. His cologne is the key. Life without senses isn’t kind.

I love everything about him combined. With only him I want to be. Love is blind.

The only wish on my mind— Bright eyes that I can see. Life without senses isn’t kind. Love is blind, and so am I.

Men of Old (Death of the Ram) Jessica Palmquist

I was a ram up on a hill

This is my story told God sent me here as sacrifice

To help these men of old

He walked up on the mountain top

His little boy in tow

I could not figure out the point

That God was trying to show

I watched him stack the rocks up high

His boy tied up in fear

He fell down low and prayed to God

His eyes began to tear

Confused I watched this poor old man

His hands wrapped in his hair

Rustling ‘round the bush and leaves

He noticed I was there

Untying his boy from the pyre

The father hugged his son

He came to me and grabbed my horns

And then my life was done

Deer Puns (A Look Out the Window at Estes Park)

Eddie Schweikert Front Cover Selection

Fiction

HERE (A Stream of Conciousness Retelling of Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain)

Nick Luedke

Igrabbed the logs and got on the skiff. Nine logs was enough for the day, plenty for the day, enough work for me. Gotta make my way to town, sell these logs off. I made it into town, selled off the logs and took my seat on the bench outside. Education? Reading? Thinks he’s BETTER than me, they all do. Never enough, NEVER enough, I don’t read why should he? Thatcher Thatcher Thatcher honest man a THIEF. It belongs to me that boy belongs to me does being his father mean nothing? The trees reaked, always hated this smell, ONE step, ONE step, can shut them after the door. Not right not right where’s the boy. I tossed the cabin, trying to find this good for nothing boy of mine. HERE you are HERE you are HERE you are why would he hide from me. Belts on the table, I’ll be ready.

I could feel the sun on my skin through the window, what’s the time. My legs can barely hold me and the light in my eyes makes me want to vomit. “Boy?”, got no answer. I burst through the door to not find him outside scuttling around in the water as he should be, working to make the money back he gave away. Back through the door, left my bottle on the ground last night, Idiot. HERE you are, HERE you are, HERE you are, I flipped the cabin upside down and I couldn’t find him anywhere. I went back outside and still, he was not in sight. Ran away? He run away? From me? I reached over, sat down, Everyone thinks their better, educated little shit and that damn judge. A drink a drink then town then to town. A pool of drool, no shoes, and violent shivers. I looked around the house and the boy was gone, did he leave in the night? To town to town that damn judge will help me, That boy is MINE, no ones better than me, I gotta find him.

What Lay Ahead

Eddie Schweikert

Untitled Bridget Praest

Broken Shards (A Stream of Conciousness Retelling of The Awakening by Kate Chopin)

Jessica Palmquist

Hopelessly in love. Hearts in my eyes. My spirit daring. With no one else I’d rather be. She warned me of him and told him to stay away. But he came back for me. He wanted me. He desired me. He loved me.

Light through the window. Gorgeous red and or ange hues. The orange of the fruit on the trees in the yard, the red of blood. Blood pulsing through my thin veins.

Window panes—outlines on the floor. The light and the shadow don’t mix but swim in and out of the air.

Mantel. Fireplace. Vase. The vase. Wedding gift. We are now at the wedding day of Leonce and Edna Pontilier.

Chains. I’m confined.

Diamond under my heel. My finger pale in the dim light. A line I must tan. A bondage I want freed of.

Glass shards hit my skin.

Blue. The sea, I see the sea. My reflection in the

water in the shards in the blood trickling down my fingers. Who is she?

I want him not Leonce. Leonce confines me. He is going to own me. He already owns me. This society owns me. My children in the other room. No. No. I want…

Look, the seagulls. The shells, the sand, the sky. Warmth on my cheek. Warmth turning to heat to hot to fire. I’m burning, scolding, turning to ash and soot.

The picture in the shards is changing. I am chained to the bedpost. Leonce looks off laughing. Help! Help! Spinning, the room circling around me.

I want Robert. I want freedom. I want Leonce. I want no one. I want to die. I want him. I want him. I want him. I want to be him.

With no one else I’d rather be.

The Last Stop Christian Dames

The city is loud when you think about killing yourself. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s as if the world wants to make it known you’re not alone, in some last-ditch effort to keep you from carrying out the deed. People talk loudly as they pass by, the cars honk and shriek at one another. Even the damn birds seem to chirp louder. I don’t know what it is, but it doesn’t make me feel any less alone.

So why haven’t I killed myself? That’s a good question. I am old, forcibly retired, my kids have their own lives, and my wife is gone-the nerve she had. What’s left for me here? The reality is that it’s hard to do. I mean, when people constantly come to pester you with problems, it gets pushed to the side. Neighbors wanting a babysitter, volunteer work at church, dealing with your grown-up kids. All these complicate matters. I mean, who’s to say I just can’t ignore them all? Just get on with it. Well, if I left this world on my own accord, blow ing off obligations my wife would beat me for eternity. I’d bet my life on that.

What’s left now is to wait for my time, for the natural order of things to play out. Don’t misconstrue this as fear of dying. I’m ready to die, I want to die. It’s just I can’t right now. I’m too distracted. This world is distracting. But believe me, if the opportunity presented itself and I could just die right here, right now, I would take it. Wholeheartedly and eagerly.

RAW Ashlee Palimo’o

I suppose as I stand here at this bus stop, watching a litany of cars drive fast to red lights, you could argue that here is my chance. No one would question the in cident of an old man walking a step too far into the ongoing traffic,

dying instantly on impact. They would say he was old, that he shouldn’t have been out alone. “Where was his caretaker?” they would cry. They would never assume it was a premeditat ed decision. He was just a damn old fool.

The thought crosses my mind, I won’t lie to you. I crane my neck to look down the street. The bus is nowhere to be seen. I look down at my leather shoes, worn from years of use. My wife had gotten them from me. I look back at the street, a tear running down my eye, and I seriously consider taking that walk. After a mo ment, I slowly make my way to the bench and sit down. The metal is cold, but I don’t notice. I’m certainly not scared to do it. I just want to give the bus a few more minutes.

I sit there, watching the cars fly by. It isn’t long before I feel a presence. To the right of me a young girl, about nineteen, sits down. The first thing I notice about her is her height. She was tall and well built, clearly an athlete. She looked like my daughter when she was in volleyball. The girl wore a large hoodie with her athletic shorts, her hair tied in a tight ponytail. She dropped her bags on the ground as she took her seat on the bench. Immediately, she assumes a crouched position, her hands covering her mouth as she looks at the ongoing traffic.

I quickly wipe my eyes on my sleeves, clearing away my tears. I don’t want her think ing I was crying; the embarrassment would be unbearable. We sit in silence, with only the sound of the cursed city filling the space. God, where was that damn bus?

“Do you ever just feel like just stepping out into the traffic? Just end it all?” The girl asks me, ending the silence between us.

Perplexed I turn to her, sputtering, “What’s that?”

She turns to me; her brown eyes are ac centuated by red strains. She had been crying. A lot. Still crouched over, she rests her head on one of her hands as she faces me. She offers a forced chuckle, shrugging at me. “Well I do. Almost daily. I’m thinking about it right now.”

I look at her, and then the traffic. I turn back to her, “Why do you say that?”

She lets out a laugh, “Cause I am sick of it all.”

“You certainly don’t look like you should be.”

She turns to me, giving me a slight glare, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean look at you. You are a young, pretty girl. And you clearly have a sport you love. You look put together, is what I am trying to say. Why do you want to end a life like that?”

She shakes her head at me, “Don’t trust appearances. I hate my sport. It hurts. Every. Single. Day. And no one on my team cares about me. Not even coach. I’m just another player.”

“Why do you do it then?” I ask.

“My parents. They make me.”

“Oh.” Is all I can say. I don’t know how to handle this situation. Retreating into my silence, I let her sit and wait for me to say something. We spend a few moments watching the traffic.

“You didn’t answer my question.” She cuts in.

I don’t turn back to her, answering to the cars, “What question?”

“About walking into the traffic. Don’t pretend. I saw you crying.”

“Damnit” I mutter to myself. I turn to her, “You saw that?”

She nods, “So. Am I alone, or were you thinking about it?”

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t.”

“Then why don’t you?” she pauses, “You scared?”

I let out a deep sigh, “No. Of course not.”

“Then why don’t you do it?”

“I don’t know. I just have my reasons.”

“Excuses-”

“Shut up.” I cut in. Upon reflection, I don’t think that was the right thing to say to a girl who admitted to suicidal thoughts. But sometimes people just need to know when to

stop.

She is silent for a moment. “Sorry” she says quietly.

“It’s fine.”

“Can I ask, why are you thinking of it?”

“I’m alone.”

She nods solemnly, “I am too.”

I begin to say something when I am inter rupted by the roar of the bus coming up to the stop. I smile at her and nod. She does the same.

The bus pulls up and the door opens, the orange light flashing the street name. I rise to get on it and so does the girl. She leaves her stuff on the ground. We stand, looking at one another.

She towers over me, to my slight annoy ance. I give her a curt nod.

“Well. I suppose we better get on.” I say. She shakes her head, “No. This is my last stop.”

I look at her confused. She looks at me, grabs my shoulder and looks down at me. A tear begins to slide down her face. “I am not scared anymore. And neither should you.”

Before I realize what she is about to do, she leaves, and runs around the front of the bus that has now created a blind spot. She runs out into the traffic. The city, once loud, falls to an eerie silence as the loud crash fills the space. The bus driver runs out, people follow, shoving past me. I can’t bring myself to go around the bus, look at the chaos that just occurred. At a loss for words, I make my way onto the bus. I force myself to the back seat. I sit down, facing away from the street side windows. Covering my mouth, the tears start erupting from my eyes. The city was loud when I was thinking about killing myself. It is silent now.

Frozen Spring Elissa Dames

Scripts

An Excerpt from “A Mother’s Love” Scene One of a Play by Devyn Hansen

An Excerpt from “All of These Strange Tales in My Head” An Anthology Film by Christian Dames

A final note...

We, the editors, want to extend our gratitude for supporting Bits of Flint. To the students who submitted, it was an absolute pleasure to review your work. Please continue to submit in future years!

To our readers, thank you for taking the time to read through this year’s Bits of Flint. To be able to share work with the rest of campus through this journal is an important part of a creative’s growth. Thank you for that support!

To our seniors who have continually served this journal, whether as submitters or as editors, we wish you well as you con clude your creative chapter here with Bits of Flint. We look forward to seeing your work elsewhere!

Your editors, Christian Dames Kristian Rocha